Some secondary characters in books just aren't meant to stay secondary, even when their first appearance is only a few lines. Brendan MacDougal turned out to be one of those characters.

The guy barely spoke in THE RICH GIRL GOES WILD, his oldest brother Wilder's story, but he immediately started nagging me for a book of his own. Trust me, a hero like him is hard to turn down. But who to pair with such a charmer, a man capable of talking people out of their money in the name of worthy causes?

She had to be someone with secrets, with a reason to keep them strong enough to withstand the famous MacDougal charm. A woman known for her stubborn will. A woman with the nickname Dr. Doberman. Yeah, that was the ticket.

Then I remembered an actual incident that had happened several years ago in my area. An hours-old baby had been abandoned under a rose bush in a popular park, and thankfully found in time. How's that for a secret? It took some major tweaking to allow for the sort of character I wanted, but eventually I ended up with Dr. Rose Doeber, the perfect match for a man with the need to know everything about the woman in his life.
These two characters were so strong in my head that they were easy to get on paper. I hope you enjoy them as much as I did.

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CHAPTER ONE

"Here. You don't want to soak the little guy."

Rose Doeber blinked hard to make sure she wasn't looking at a late-night hallucination. After all, the light in the small, semi-private hospital room was dim and tears did tend to blur things. But when she refocused her eyes, the big, gorgeous, dark-haired man in a black tuxedo was still standing on the other side of the only occupied railed bed, towering over the child asleep in it. He appeared as real as the snowy-white handkerchief he was offering her.

Not exactly used to being comforted by incredible looking men in formal wear, she couldn't think of anything else to do but reach a hand toward him. He quickly rounded the bed, his shiny black shoes noisy on the sterile white linoleum, and gave her the handkerchief.

"Thank you." Her voice came out low and rough, a remnant of the tears she'd tried to quickly wipe away when he'd first startled her with some sort of comment about believing laughter was the best medicine.

When he'd first spoken from the shadows near the open door, beyond the reach of the bedside light, Rose had feared she'd been caught by a fellow hospital staff member. She was well aware most thought she was as hard as nails and much older than her 31 years. She'd rather swill iodine than let any of them see her too-soft underbelly that her tough and tenacious routine was meant to protect. She'd learned long ago that if no one knew she was vulnerable, no one could hurt her.

Only late at night in the quiet of Chicago General's pediatric ward that had become her universe, and at Dylan's bedside where she let her guard down, did her worries about her bid to adopt the three-year-old overwhelm her.

And that was when the memories came.

Memories of waking up in this very hospital, a frightened six-year-old with no idea who she was or why she'd been left unconscious under a rose bush in a city garden. And how no one had come forward to claim her.

That abandonment hadn't been her last, either.

She held the handkerchief to her eyes and clenched her teeth against the familiar pain. She refused to let Dylan start down that road. But with Dylan's incarcerated father stalling the commencement of the adoption process, Rose had finally lost control tonight and succumbed to rare tears.

She'd been so alone for so long, with Dylan the only emotional connection she could trust, she'd momentarily thought her stressed mind had conjured up an image of her perfect man, a tower of strength and reliability. Someone who would never use or abandon her.

Someone who didn't exist.

The guy in the tux said, "You're welcome" and shook her from her self-pitying thoughts.

While he might look like the sort of apparition a heart as lonely as hers would come up with, the rumble of his deep voice along her senses felt very real. And there was no denying the spicy, heady scent the fine cloth handkerchief had picked up from its owner. It made for a sharp contrast to the disinfectant-tinged hospital air she hadn't noticed in years.

He quietly cleared his throat as if the rough edges to his baritone weren't normal, either. "Is there anything else I can do for you?" His voice was much smoother, almost cultured. "Call your husband? Boyfriend?"

Rose scoffed as she wiped beneath her eyes with his incredibly soft handkerchief. "I'm not married. No boyfriend."

He was silent for a moment, then added, "Is there anything you need?"

Too drained to throw out her usual response of to be left alone, she shook her head and dabbed at her nose. "No."

"Are you sure?" he pressed. "I'm amazingly resourceful."

Dropping her hands to her lap, she looked down at the square of linen he'd produced from within his tuxedo jacket, the white stark against her black knit pants. Heaven only knew what he might have tucked between the white shirt covering his flat stomach and his black cummerbund. She gave a rueful laugh. "I don't doubt that you are, but there's no way you could get me what I need."

"Try me," he countered in a tone that made it clear he felt the need to prove her wrong.

She raised her gaze to his eyes. They appeared light brown in the lamp's low glow. Probably hazel. Definitely warm with concern.

He raised a dark brow, reminding her that he was waiting to hear what she needed, what he was delusional enough to think he could get for her.

Maybe he had reason for his delusions, too. He clearly was a man of means. No rental tux would ever fit a man the way his did. The set of his square jaw and the studied effortlessness of the style he wore his slightly wavy hair in bespoke a man who did what he wanted, and did it well.

If only this wedding magazine escapee really was her perfect man. A walking fantasy. Her dreams come true.

Yeah, right.

When she remained silent, he reached out and laid a hand that looked impossibly strong and tan against the beige blanket on the end of the bed, a gold class ring glinting on his right ring finger, and directed his attention to Dylan."Is he in a bad way?"

Rose followed his gaze, her heart melting as always at the sight of the precious towheaded little boy, his well-loved Bunny held close."No. Thank God. For the most part, he's fine. Some digestive issues, but nothing serious." She laid a gentle hand of her own on the sheet covering Dylan's rounded tummy. "He just doesn't speak. We're trying to figure out why."

She understood completely Dylan's inability to talk just as she had finally come to understand--and accept--her inability to remember why she'd been abandoned. Some things were best left unsaid or forgotten. It was what made her and Dylan kindred souls.

Even though she knew what demons lived in his nightmares along with his vital statistics, she still thought of him as her Little Mr. Nobody, just as she'd thought of herself as Little Miss Nobody while growing up. Like her, no one really wanted him.

No one but her.

The man asked, "How old is he?"

"Three. He's small for his age. But tough. So very tough." The police had found him in a nest he'd made for himself and Bunny in the closet, and while he never made a sound, he was quick with his sweet smile.

"There must still be some way I can help."

She gave a soft, wry laugh. "You wouldn't happen to be a Family Court judge, would you?"

"No, but I occasional play golf with--"

She waved him off. "That's okay. Really." She eyed him again. "You look like you have more important plans for the night than helping me out."

He squatted next to her. The angled light glinted off his hair, which turned out to be the richest mahogany color she'd ever seen. The richest and most touchable. With him so low and less imposing, so close and smelling so good, it was harder for her not to meet his warm gaze.

A small smile curled the edges of his sensuous mouth and something tightened in her belly. "If I can give you a reason to smile, then there's nothing more important I could be doing."

His canned charm made Rose smile despite herself. The flare of appreciation in his eyes jolted her with self-consciousness. She resisted the urge to smooth her hair--or his--and shifted her attention back to the white handkerchief she'd gripped with both hands on her lap. Heat still blossomed in her cheeks. He really had caught her in a weak moment. The temptation to go with the fantasy of him being her dream man was incredibly strong.

His deep voice, inexplicably soft and now dangerously smooth, breached her ancient defenses yet more. "Did something happen that might cost you custody of your son?"

Giving a hollow laugh at how close he'd come to the truth, she shook her head. "That's just it, he's not my son." The words burned her throat.

From the moment they'd called her in to assess Dylan for possible neurological damage stemming from his deceased mother's drug use or, God forbid, physical abuse, Rose had fallen in love with the little boy. And she wanted nothing more than to be the mother he deserved.

"Not yours? Really?" He stood and looked between her and the sleeping Dylan. "He sure has your coloring. Amazing blond hair, fair skin, fine features. What is he to you?"

Her fantasy man's pointed questions were just what she needed to slap her back to reality. A reality that set off alarms in her head.

She stood and retrieved her white lab coat from the back of her chair, pulling it on over her blue cotton shirt as she placed herself between him and Dylan. "I'm sorry, but what exactly is your business here at the hospital so late?" She made a just as pointed perusal of his tuxedo. "Visiting hours were over some time ago."

His gaze roamed over her in return, clearly noting her identification badge and card key hanging from a long, shoe-lace type cord covered with bright yellow smiley faces.

He nodded and gave a silent ah. "I'm here scouting the hospital for photo ops for my race car driver brother. We're doing a safety promotional campaign to raise funds for an expansion of this pediatric wing. "His gaze went back to the bed and its occupant. "You know," he inclined his head toward Dylan. "This little guy would be perfect to pose with Rory. Especially since his health isn't as delicate as some. If this warm spring weather holds, we could even use him in the outdoor shots. Do you think his parents will go for it?"

Cold panic seized Rose by the throat, closing off her airway with its icy grip. What if Bobby Ray saw his son getting attention from someone famous on the news or some commercial? Though Folsom Prison was a long way away in California, Bobby Ray might think he could benefit somehow and change his mind about allowing her adoption of Dylan to begin. She couldn't bear the loss, and Dylan didn't deserve the abandonment.

She shook her head sharply and forced out, "No. Not Dylan."
The man's eyebrows shot up.

"As the attending pediatric neurologist on this case, I can't allow it. Now if you'll step into the hall..." She held a rigid hand out toward the door.

He complied and started for the door, but didn't take his clearly surprised gaze from her. "Pediatric neurologist. Hm."

She herded him back out into the hall, dimly lit in deference to the children who couldn't sleep behind a closed door. Like so many of these kids, Dylan was additionally burdened with a fear of the dark.

Delores, the head nightshift nurse, was double-checking a tray of pills on a cart across the hall from them. She raised her gray brows at the man in the tux, then grinned in a way that took thirty years off her empathy-weathered face when he nodded to her in acknowledgment.

No wonder he'd looked so stunned when Rose had told him no. He'd probably never heard the word before.

As soon as Delores returned her attention to what she'd been doing, selected the right cup of meds and disappeared into the room opposite them, he lifted a hand, his onyx cufflink flashing ominously, and pointed at Dylan. "He'd really get a kick out of my brother Rory. He's great with the kids."

Rose crossed her arms and raised herself to her full height, which at 5'9" was usually more than enough, but she max'ed out at this guy's slightly cleft chin. Not exactly equal footing.

To pretend as if she hadn't noticed, she raised her own chin a notch. "No. Dylan is off limits. Now, if you'll excuse me," she said as she uncrossed her arms and stepped around him. When he didn't move also, she pointed down the hall in the opposite direction she intended to go."You'll find the most direct way out down that hall."

He raised his hand in acknowledgment, though he didn't leave, just continued to watch her, his gaze assessing, probing. While she should stick around to make sure he really left, the urge to flee the risk he posed to her composure was too strong.

She clearly needed to spend some time alone reminding herself that unless people were careful, there was always someone--she belatedly realized she hadn't asked Mr. Tuxedo for his name--out there ready, willing and able to use them in some way.

And that the perfect man didn't exist.

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